


Apis Mellifera

by SherlockChlo



Series: Young at Heart [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bees, Boarding School, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Bullying, Sherlock Holmes and Bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7510594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockChlo/pseuds/SherlockChlo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock and Mycroft were young, the two would spend hours learning different things from each other. But one day, Mycroft has to leave for school. We follow Sherlock as he attempts to cope with Mycroft not being at home with them for the first time. It's safe to say that Sherlock doesn't cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apis Mellifera

“So, this type of bee-“

“-the honey bee!”

“ _Yes._ The honey bee’s scientific name is ‘ _apis mellifera_ ’. This one here is a worker bee, so it’s a sterile female. Do you remember what sterile means, Will?”

A six year old William stared up at his older brother, attempting to listen and store all the information that Mycroft was teaching him. Sometimes William found it difficult to listen because Mycroft used stupidly long words that no six year old would ever be able to understand; _even_ Sherlock.

“Um… That you can’t have kids?”

“Not able to produce children, yes. Well done, Wills,” he smiled slightly down at his little brother, moving the magnifying glass in his hand slightly closer to the bee.

“How’d you know it’s a girl, Myc?”

“She has a stinger, look,” Mycroft told him, pointing to the stinger on the bottom of the bee, “male drones don’t have these, and are only used for reproduction in the hive. After they have been used, they are killed,”

William hummed slightly in acknowledgement, moving slightly closer to study the bee that was still, surprisingly, sitting on the sunflower in the Holmes’ garden. His eyes moved to look at Mycroft for a moment, before returning to the bee.

“What is it, Will?”

“How do you know the dif-diffe… Hmm,”

“Difference?”

“Yeah that, between a worker female bee, and the Queen bee, Myc?”

“Well, first of all, the Queen bee rarely leaves the hive- Her job is to be the leader and reproduce with the male drones. But, if she is to leave the hive, you are able to tell them apart by their size. The worker bees are usually nine to eighteen millimetres long, with the Queen bee reaching between eighteen and twenty millimetres,”

William giggled slightly, acknowledging that he had heard what Mycroft had said, but also questioning Mycroft’s knowledge slightly.

“How does the Queen become that size, Myc?”

“From birth, the larvae that is destined to become the Queen is given a special diet, specifically for her, by the worker bees. The other bees are simply given the normal diet,”

When Mycroft heard another small giggle come from William, he turned to see the smaller Holmes looking his body up and down and biting his lip. Scowling, Mycroft replied, “what _are_ you laughing at, William?”

“S-so, does that makes you the Queen bee?” William giggled once again, hiding his mouth behind his hands and leaning back slightly.

Mycroft felt the colour rise to his cheeks slightly, accepting that this was simply a joke from William’s perspective, but still feeling the slight sting of the question.

At thirteen, Mycroft was the stereotypical unattractive teenager. He had slightly more weight to him than most boys his age had, especially around his waist line, and had ginger hair. Over time, this would dull down slightly, but for now, Mycroft had to make do. His skin was oily, causing him to get extremely spotty. He hated it.

“Myc, are you okay?”

Mycroft snapped his head to look at his younger brother, the smile now gone from his face. William was studying his brother silently, being able to understand his brother’s emotions well even at the age of six.

“Yes, ‘Lock. I’m sorry for worrying you,” he attempted to smile convincingly, hoping that William would believe the lie (he usually did at this age). “I am sure that I have told you all of this before,” he teased slightly, wondering why William wanted the bee lecture for the third time in two weeks, “Did you want to look at more insects, or would you rather go and play?”

A few seconds passed while William considered both options, “I wanna go and play, Myc,”

Mycroft twisted his fingers in William’s curly hair for a moment, knowing that William enjoyed it when he did that. He moved his head slightly, “go on then,” he said, smiling reassuringly at his little brother.

William ran off to find Redbeard, the boy having been friendless for most of his life, and play pirates. Mycroft watched him go, suddenly saddened as he thought about what day it was. William had gone back to school today, starting year 2 and already being picked on for his intelligence. On September 7th, Mycroft was to start his time at boarding school, leaving his home, and William, behind. He knew that it would be good for him to go to Boarding School, especially since it was what mummy and daddy wanted, but he didn’t want to leave William at home. Alone.

Hearing William shout for him, Mycroft shook himself out of the state he was in, and searched for his brother across the garden. He found William easily enough, pirate hat on his head, trusty dog by his side, and a sword in his hand.

“What arrre you doing herrre, Masterr Mycroft?”

Oh, so it _was_ time to play.

“I’m here, Cap’in, to ask to join your crew,”

William’s head tilted as he looked at his brother, _shipmate_ , standing across from him. Redbeard growled slightly, knowing exactly what part he played in this scenario. Mycroft looked down at the Red Setter, holding his hands up in surrender to him, before walking slowly forwards to move closer to Sherlock.

“Why would you wanna join _my_ crew?”

“You are well known, Cap’in. The reputation would do me good,”

As Mycroft moved closer, the grip William had on his sword increased slightly; always on the guard.

“Why should _I_ trust _you_ , Masterr Mycroft? After all, you were part of Cap’in Willis’ crew before, werrre you not?”

“Well, yes, but I want to work for you-Ohhh…”

William’s sword had found itself in Mycroft’s abdomen (between his arm and his hip), with Redbeard circling the two and keeping an eye out for any other crew members that may have wanted to test Captain William Scott.

“Y-you’ve killed me-“

“Perhaps next time, you will consider all the options before you attempt to test me,” William smiled crookedly at his brother, attempting to make himself look scary. But, with missing teeth and a babyish face, he didn’t exactly pull it off.

Letting out a groan of pain, Mycroft fell onto the deck of the ship, faking death as the Captain watched him. William watched for a moment coldly, but then he wondered whether he had actually hurt Mycroft and threw himself onto the older boy.

“Mycroft? Mycroft!”

“Raaaa,” Mycroft shouted, throwing the sword away and jumping on William. His hands found their way to William’s stomach, his fingers tickling the younger boy until he was squealing.

“Myc-Mycr s-stop pl-please!”

Despite his protests, William continued to squeal and giggle, and Mycroft continued to tickle him, hoping all the while that William didn’t remember what day it was tomorrow until it was too late.

William knew that Mycroft was leaving home tomorrow; mummy had told him last week so that he didn’t cause too much fuss when the day itself arrived. Since then, William had been working on his own little project for Mycroft, so that the older boy would remember him when he was away at Boarding school without William being there with him.

The reason William had wanted to learn about bees over and over was so he could build a model of a bee, currently made out of bottle tops and baking paper; that he could give to Mycroft when he left.

William didn’t want Mycroft to go, no matter how much his older brother teased him and annoyed him, he also taught him a lot about the World that normal education would not teach him.

When the fingers stopped tickling him, William looked up at his brother and studied his face intently. He wouldn’t ever tell Mycroft, but he would miss him while he was away at Boarding School; hoping that the time for him to go as well would come by quickly.

He also knew that Mycroft thought that he would react badly, just as their parents had suggested. Despite what people thought, William could control the way in which he reacted to certain stimuli. This would be one of those times.

In fact, a six year old William, a young child who refused to go to bed on time every night (once even biting the maid that had attempted to do so against his wishes), went to bed early in order to see his brother off.

Unfortunately, the dreams of pirates and adventures that William had that night kept him asleep. At 7 o’clock precisely, Mycroft stepped into the family car, ready to make his journey to school.

William woke up at the same time, noticing the time, and flinging himself out of bed. He grabbed the bee model delicately, and ran downstairs. He saw his mother and father in the doorway, holding each other slightly as they waved Mycroft off. He ran, trying to get to the car before Mycroft could leave him for three months. He saw the smoke from the exhaust pipe before he saw the car.

Standing in the middle of the drive way, the bee model now limp in his arms, William watched as the car carrying his older brother drove away. Just before the car turned the corner onto the road, Mycroft turned his head to look out the back of the car and make eye contact with William still standing on the driveway. He raised his hand to wave at William, who was now standing in front of their parents. Once he saw the returning wave, he turned back to face the front of the car, not being able to face seeing his little brother sad.

William stood, feeling his mother and father come to stand behind him as the car turned onto the street. He waved back at Mycroft, and quickly returned to hugging the bee model close to his chest.

“Don’t worry, William. You’ll be able to see Mycroft again at Christmas,” his mother tried to reassure him, “why don’t you go and get ready for school, William?”

William smiled sadly to himself, attempting to stop himself from crying in front of his parents over something as trivial as sentiment for his brother. He started to walk back into the house, hugging the bee tightly to himself.

“Will-“

“My name is Sherlock, mummy. Please try and struggle all the way to the end,” he snapped slightly, unhappy about the entire day already, even though it was only 7:03. He looked his parents dead in the eye, before walking back into the house.

Sherlock didn’t feel particularly happy about going to school, but he didn’t want to let Mycroft down while he was away. That was one of the worst things he could do.

 

Over the next three months, Sherlock bypassed year two into year three, finding the work there slightly more difficult than he had been given previously. It was clear to the teachers, Sherlock’s parents and Sherlock (of course), that Sherlock was smarter than the rest of the children in year three, but it would be considered unethical to move Sherlock up any higher than he already was within three months. He needed ‘time to settle’, the teachers said.

Sherlock didn’t agree with them. He wanted something challenging, something that would make him as smart as Mycroft was someday. Mycroft hadn’t been put forward because he simply educated himself at home. At Sherlock’s age, Mycroft knew that it was simply easier to ignore everyone being less intelligent than himself and pretend that he was just like everyone else. This patience resulted in Mycroft having plenty of people to back him up when older children bullied him.

The same could not be said for Sherlock.

Sherlock’s small body was no match for the bigger bodies of the year four groups. Now that Sherlock was moved to year three, the two year groups played on the same playground, and word could get around quickly about something that Sherlock had said. These were children after all; nothing was kept a secret.

During those three months, Sherlock had sent one letter to Mycroft. He had only sent one because he had not received a reply and had immediately known that Mycroft had found people that were much better than having a younger brother.

After all, if Mycroft couldn’t even be bothered to answer his letters, why would anyone want to get to know him and be friends with him?

Sherlock couldn’t see any reason why. At six years old, Sherlock was too grown up for his age, having already fixed the lisp that he had developed with the loss of his teeth, and giving up on finding someone who would be friends with him. Redbeard was all that Sherlock Holmes needed.

That Christmas, Mycroft had planned to return, but his French auntie had invited him, as well as a friend, over to stay in Paris. Of course, Mycroft couldn’t say no; it would be both disrespectful and a waste of a fantastic opportunity to spend time surrounded in the French culture. Sherlock, or William as people continued to call him, wasn’t invited. He was ‘too young’, apparently.

Sherlock wouldn’t tell, but it made him very mad.

On January 6th, Sherlock turned seven years old. Mycroft didn’t call Sherlock to say happy birthday, he didn’t send him a card. He didn’t even get mummy to pass a message onto him.

By the end of February, the teachers were prompting William’s, _Sherlock’s_ , parents to move him up another year group, so that he would know that he was as high as he could go. Two years was currently the maximum that the government were willing to go, hoping that it would ease some tensions, both with Sherlock and with Tim Holmes (a man who had his fingers in many pies).

So, on March 23rd, Sherlock was moved to year four; where all of the bullies were. It was typical, in Sherlock’s opinion, that they put him there. Teachers failed to see everything. That was one lesson of Mycroft’s that he remembered, having attempted to forget everything else.

After all, why would he need Mycroft, if Mycroft didn’t need him?

Despite the teacher’s attempt to make the work harder for Sherlock, he still found it too easy. The summer before Mycroft had left, the older boy had been teaching Sherlock about algebra, something that Mycroft had been teaching himself from a set of GCSE maths books that their parents had given him for his birthday in June.

Learning from Mycroft’s example, Sherlock started to teach himself different things. Anything from French and Latin, to mathematics and biology. He _needed_ something that would improve his mind. Singing hymns and making a project on the football star the class was named after was not something that Sherlock considered to be educational. The teachers didn’t agree.

Apparently making presentations on David Beckham was exactly what Sherlock should be doing with his time.

Again, Sherlock didn’t agree with them.

When June rolled around, and it was nearly Mycroft’s birthday, Sherlock still hadn’t received a letter from his brother asking him how he was doing in school these days. Mummy insisted that Sherlock call his older sibling on his birthday, but when Sherlock didn’t receive an answer, mummy immediately regretted her decision.

However, when she too tried to call Mycroft, she received no reply. He managed to escape mummy’s wrath.

For now.

The same couldn’t be said for when he came home. On July 21st, a fourteen year old Mycroft Holmes stepped through the door, holding an umbrella in his hand. His hair was neatly combed, and his suit looked pristine. To most people, Mycroft looked exactly how he had the day he had left for school.

To Sherlock, that wasn’t the case.

Sherlock saw the dead stare that Mycroft’s eyes held.

Sherlock saw the tight grip that Mycroft’s hand had on the umbrella beside him, betraying the lack of emotions in the rest of his face.

And Sherlock saw the absence of love that Mycroft’s eyes used to hold for him. It was always there. No matter how annoying Sherlock was, or how angry Mycroft would become, there would always be the telling signs of love in Mycroft’s eyes. That was gone now.

Both mummy and daddy went to greet Mycroft, hugging him close and telling him how much they had missed him while he had been away. From inside where Mycroft was encircled in their parent’s arms, Sherlock made eye contact with his older brother.

When Mycroft didn’t even blink, Sherlock ran off, not wanting to talk to the person that had replaced his brother while he had been away.

He slammed the door to his bedroom, not caring whether his parent would tell him off for doing so later on. Mycroft had _changed_ while he was away at school, and it was most definitely not for the better.

Once inside his room, Sherlock looked around for something to break. Something to smash into thousands of tiny little pieces that he would break even further until he was satisfied. He picked up a china dog from his windowsill, having no idea why he had even kept it in the first place, and throwing it onto the floor at his feet, moving himself to jump on it and break it even further. He couldn’t tell whether he was screaming, but he could tell that he was angry. He had never been this angry in his life.

His eyes scanned the room again, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Outside of his room, Sherlock heard different voices, but he was so angry that he was unable to tell one apart from the other. He didn’t want to tell them apart. He didn’t care.

Sherlock grabbed the model of a bee that Sherlock had made almost a year ago, wanting to break it, but instead holding it close to his chest. It reminded him of the Mycroft that had left. The one that taught him things willingly. The Mycroft that loved Sherlock, no matter what he did.

With his ears still ringing, the sound of the door handle turning was barely audible. Sherlock placed the bee back onto the bookcase where he kept it, turning to look at the intruder.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, still carrying that _stupid_ umbrella, and his legs crossed.

“Hello, William,” he said coolly, as though he still knew the boy that Mycroft was standing opposite.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest in annoyance, “everyone calls me Sherlock now.”

Mycroft looked his little brother up and down for a moment, studying the different parts of his body carefully.

“You’ve never wanted to be called Sherlock; even when you went through that phase of wanting to be just like me. Always William. Why now?”

“You weren’t here,” Sherlock said simply.

“Wi-Sherlock, you have to understand that I can’t be there for you all the time. I have other priorities now.”

“I didn’t want you to go. I knew you’d come back less Mycroft-y.”

“I’m still the same person, Sherlock, I just have new things that I have to do to go where I want to go. Things I have to do to succeed,” Mycroft pushed himself off of the door and walked slowly into the room.

“Get out of my room,” Sherlock said quietly, still staring at his brother furiously. When Mycroft didn’t move to leave, Sherlock seethed, “Get _out_ of my room, Mycroft,”

“Don’t you want to chat?”

“You haven’t wanted to talk to me the entire year. You didn’t reply to my letter. You didn’t answer the phone when I called you,” Sherlock sighed slightly, “you didn’t even come home for Christmas, Myc,”

“I was invited by our aunt abroad. Why would I say no?” Mycroft was slowly getting closer to his brother, the tension clear and thick in the air around them. Sherlock guessed that their parents were still standing downstairs, hoping that Mycroft approaching Sherlock would suddenly solve everything that they too saw in Mycroft’s changed persona.

“You could have called me,”

Now Sherlock was feeling slightly childish, but these things had to come out sometime. He was hurt. Deeply so. It seemed to him that Mycroft didn’t care how he was feeling.

“I was busy,”

“That’s what everyone says,”

Mycroft was becoming agitated with Sherlock’s attitude. Why was he acting as though Mycroft was someone that he’d never met before? He’d only been away at school for 10 months. In all honesty, Mycroft hadn’t wanted to call home because he believed that he’d want to return there, instead of finishing his year at the school. After all, the first year was the worst, right?

“You’ve changed, Sherlock,”

“Me?” he asked, becoming angry with his older brother, “I’ve changed? You’re the one who left and became someone else, Myc,” he walked towards Mycroft so that their bodies were touching. Mycroft was considerably taller than Sherlock, especially since it seemed that he’d had a growth spurt whilst away at school, so they couldn’t touch chest to chest. Sherlock had had experience with older children by now though, he was beginning to understand how to defend himself against those that would use their size against him.

“You’re so annoying, Mycroft!”

Mycroft placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, and pushed the smaller boy the floor.

“You’re not?”

“Argh!” Sherlock pounced on Mycroft, punching and pulling at anything his tiny hands could get a hold of. Unfortunately, Mycroft _was_ the bigger sibling. He pushed Sherlock off and held him onto the floor.

The older boy looked up at the bookcase beside them, spotting the item that Sherlock had been hugging close. It obviously meant something to the boy.

In Mycroft’s mind, there was no rational thought. If there had been, he would have called their parents, told them that Sherlock was upset, and allowed them to deal with the younger Holmes. But, he wasn’t thinking rationally. Mycroft saw the model of a bee, and he simply thought ‘destroy’.

So he did.

Before he could think about his actions, he had thrown the bee onto the floor, and was stamping on the model, breaking it beyond repair.

Sherlock screamed, the pain that the model was feeling hurting him in turn. It was as though Mycroft was crushing him instead of the bee.

“Mycroft, stop!” he shouted, attempting to get his attention. The older boy didn’t listen, he just kept destroying.

In his rage, something that had been building up the entire school year, Mycroft didn’t see the tears welling up in his little brother’s eyes. He didn’t see the expression of utter heart break that Sherlock’s face conveyed to him. He didn’t hear the younger boy’s screams for him to stop. He didn’t hear anything.

Sherlock ran. He couldn’t stand there and watch his brother destroy the only thing that still resembled the two of them having had some form of relationship in the past.

He ran past his parents who were listening at the bottom of the staircase, ignoring their calls of ‘Sherlock’ and ‘William, stop’ as he ran out of the front door. Why would he want to stay in a house full of people that didn’t want him there?

At the bottom of the garden, Sherlock found an opening in one of the bushes. Inside, lay the unmoving body of Redbeard.

That day, July 21st, was easily the worst day of Sherlock Holmes’ life.

Redbeard died from lungworm.

Mycroft returned and severed the tie between the two boys.

From that day, the Holmes brothers barely had a relationship. There was nothing that Violet or Tim Holmes could do to improve it, or help the boys get along. Before long, Mycroft became over-protective of Sherlock, causing a teenage Sherlock Holmes to rebel against the law and start to play around with drugs.

To this day, Sherlock Holmes remembers July 21st as the day that his older brother Mycroft ruined their relationship, but refused to apologise for his actions.

Mycroft Holmes remembers it as the day that his emotions got the better of him, the day that he pushed Sherlock away from himself. The day that Mycroft regrets most. He had attempted to explain what happened to himself several times over the past thirty years, but the only way he could explain it was through a loss of control. Something that he prevented himself from ever losing again.


End file.
